


Morsel

by PinkDogPlushie



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Asexual Charles Emerson Winchester III, Charles Emerson Winchester III Gets a Hug, Charles Emerson Winchester III Needs a Hug, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Platonic Cuddling, Touch-Starved, Touch-Starved Charles Emerson Winchester III
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:20:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24907504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PinkDogPlushie/pseuds/PinkDogPlushie
Summary: Charles, normally adverse to physical touch, finds himself starved for physical affection without noticing.
Relationships: Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce & Charles Emerson Winchester III
Comments: 6
Kudos: 52





	Morsel

**Author's Note:**

> Me, not writing crack for once? Stranger things have happened.

Charles Emerson Winchester was not one for physical contact. 

It wasn't that he was repulsed by human touch. It was more like he was adverse to it; or rather, having not had much of it when he was a boy, he didn't really know how to appreciate it.

But the truth was, he didn't like how he reacted when someone gave him more than a slight bump in passing.

It was ridiculous, really, how much something like a simple shoulder pat could do to him. He had tried to convince himself that it was disgust, that as a Winchester he was above meaningless demonstrations of affection.

But it was somewhere in Korea that he gave up on believing his own fabricated narrative and accepted it:

Physical touch was... intoxicating.

He had always been repulsed towards the idea of sex, especially when he was involved in any way; but there was something about touching another human, not with the intent of sexual intimacy but just for the mere act of feeling another life under his fingers, that was _addicting_. 

He had taken notice of the full effects of this... condition of his one random evening in the Mess Tent. He had been moodier than usual for the last few days: his bunkmates' idiotic antics seemed particularly unnerving, Major Houlihan's voice had been especially shrill, and the hours in OR appeared to stretch on and on until it felt like days since he had felt the sun in his skin.

Needless to say, his temper had been considerably shorter. He had lashed out several times at his fellow surgeons, sparking more than one heated argument; he had incurred Margaret's ire by snapping at her mid-surgery, and only by biting his tongue had he stopped himself from doing the same at the Colonel. He was baffled by his own short fuse, and deep down he felt bad for being so unfair to people who, with no doubt, cared for him deeply. But the same moodiness that kept him in a perpetual state of misery also drained him of any energy to push himself to apologize.

As he sullenly sat by himself to eat the disgusting slop in front of him, pretending he didn't hear Pierce complaining about his recent behavior as if he wasn't even in the room, he discovered he had a lump in his throat. He sniffled, his eyes stinging, and dug his nails in his palm, willing himself not to cry in front of the entire 4077th.

He could not fathom why he felt that way, and considered the possibility that he was coming down with an illness of sorts. But if he was sick, it would still be no excuse for his deplorable actions of the past few days. And besides, no one would actually care about his well-being. He had burned enough bridhes to ensure that wouldn't happen.

As soon as that last thought came to his head, the lump on his throat tightened. He suddenly decided to have dinner elsewhere, preferably the supply shed, where no one but lovers on a forbidden thryst could see him if he did indeed weep. For with every passing moment, his tears seemed closer to spilling, a hitherto unknown heartbreak overwhelming him and making him shake like a feverish man. 

Alas, before he could depart the eyes that bore into him from all sides of the Mess, Father Mulcahy decided to sit next to him. He tried to engage him in conversation, but received little more than noncommittal grunts and monosyllabic answers from Charles. To be perfectly candid, the Major did not pay attention to what his unwanted companion told him, and spent the entire time the Father was with him wishing he would disappear so Charles could leave to wallow in misery in peace. 

That was, until Mulcahy put a strong, steady hand on his shoulder.

Suddenly, it was like a blindfold had been removed from his eyes. All his senses were suddenly sharp, the hand on his shoulder warm through his fatigues, almost to a scorching degree.

"I am here for you, my son," he heard the Father speak, loud and clear, "if you ever wish to talk about your burdens."

The hand then left, along with the rest of the Father, as the man of the cloth left his side. He immediatly found himself craving that warmth. He wanted _more_. He felt like a starving man who had tasted his first morsel in weeks, only to see it walk away from him. Part of his brain was screaming at him to follow Mulcahy, to get more of that intoxicating touch.

But instead, when he finally got up, he just threw away his untouched food and headed towards the Swamp. There he stayed, alone, trying to distract himself: he read, he put on his latest record of classical music, he made himself a cup of tea to quelch his rumbling stomach. But through everything he pursued, the feeling of Father Mulcahy's warmth persisted.

In the end, he found himself staring at the canvas roof, pondering why such an inane touch could throw him so off-balance. He ended up wondering when it had been the last time he had been hugged, truly and deeply, and whether that was related to his recent moodiness.

But just as he dismissed that hypothesis as absurd, the Swamp's door opened.

It was Pierce. He looked somber, an unusual sight. He greeted Charles with a simple "hey". The Major answered with a curt "Pierce", and that was all the dialogue that was exchanged for several moments.

Finally, his fellow surgeon broke the silence: "Listen, uh... I'm sorry, for everything I did earlier. I shouldn't have said those things to you _and_ about you. BJ thinks the same, and he would have told you in person if he didn't have Post-Op duty now."

Such a sincere apology took Charles by surprise, but he did not let it show too much when he answered in kind: "That was very considerate of you, Pierce. I too apologize for my behavior. It was inexcusable of me to treat the both of you in such a fashion."

"It's ok. There's been a lot of wounded lately, we're all tired..."

"That is still no excuse for mistreating my colleagues."

"C'mon, Charles, don't beat yourself up."

"Pierce, I am not 'beating myself up'. I am simply stating fact. And a Winchester should always be corteous towards those that he cares for."

Silence ensued as he realized what had just come out of his mouth.

"Wow, Charles," Pierce started, crossing his arms over his chest and smirking "What happened to the guy who didn't want others to think he was 'amiable'?". 

Charles felt his cheeks flush and looked away. He heard the cot creak as Pierce sat on it.

"Seriously, Charles," Hawkeye began "There's nothing wrong with saying you care for someone. God knows this place needs a little more caring." 

Charles still didn't look up, just kept observing his knuckles as they whitened from the strength he was gripping his sheets with. His eyes stung again, and he bit on his lip as he tried to swallow the lump that had returned to his throat. Why was he so damn emotional?! It was so undignified, so unlike him...

And then it returned.

The steady pressure of a hand, this time in his forearm, comforting him. Charles took a deep, trembling breath as he felt the coveted warmth seep into his very being, as if Pierce was imbuing him with some sort of healing elixir for his soul.

"Charles," he heard Pierce say "It's ok. It's alright if this shitty place gets to you. You're only human. We're here for you. _I'm_ here for you-" 

Charles didn't let him finish.

Before he himself could process what he was doing, the Major had wrapped his arms around Pierce, who had stilled in shock. He took deep breaths as he felt some treacherous tears fall from his eyes and sniffled, yet he couldn't care for his lack of self-control. All he cared for was the warmth, the contact, the feeling of another human in his arms, alive.

He was starved. He had been starving for this, for contact, for affection, and now that he had it, he could not let go. He could not let this elixir of life slip through his arms. He needed this, he realized, as much as he needed food and water.

The feeling only intensified when Pierce finally reciprocated, wrapping his long arms around Charles. The Major gripped the other man's fatigues and let out a desperate sob. He wanted _more_. He was drowning at sea and this was his lifeline. He wanted to feel the affection of others so badly, he could not get enough of this one morsel, this one gesture of love.

His eyes were blurry with tears when he opened them at the feeling of Pierce's hand in the back of his head. He was cradling it and shushing softly in his ear, whispering reassurances over and over: 

It's ok.

I got you.

I'm not gonna let go.


End file.
